**Diary Entry**
The ache in my back didnt stop me as I moved to open the door. Emily wiped her damp hands and, wincing at the pain, shuffled toward the entryway. The knock had been timid, but insistentthis was the third time. Id been busy cleaning the windows and hadnt hurried to answer. Standing there was a young woman, sweet-faced but pale, with tired eyes.
“Emily, they said you might have a room to let?”
“Oh, those neighbours! Always sending someone my way! I dont let rooms, never have.”
“But I was told youve got three bedrooms.”
“So what? Must I rent them out? Im used to living alone.”
“Well, pardon me. They said you were a churchgoer, so I thought”
The girls eyes welled up as she turned, shoulders trembling, and started down the steps.
“Love, come back! I havent refused you yet! Young people these daysso sensitive, crying over nothing. Come inside, lets talk. Whats your name? You can call me Emily.”
“Lydia.”
“Lydia? Did the sea call to you, girl?”
“Ive no father. Im an orphan. No mother either. I was found in a building lobby by kind strangers and taken to the police. I wasnt even a month old.”
“Alright, dont take offence. Come, lets have tea. Are you hungry?”
“No, I bought a roll.”
“A roll, she says! Youth these daysnever mind yourselves, and by thirty, youve got ulcers. Sit down, theres pea soup still warm. Well heat the tea too. Ive plenty of jam. My husband passed five years ago, and I still cook for two out of habit. Eat first, then help me finish the window.”
“Emily, could I do something else? I feel dizzyIm afraid Ill fall.”
“What? Oh, my stars! Dont tell me youve gone and”
“Why assume the worst? Im married. James, from the same orphanage. He was called up for service. Came home on leave recently. When my landlady found out, she gave me a week to leave. We lived nearby, butwell, you see how it is.”
“How it is What am I to do with you? Fine, well move my bed into Pauls old room. Take mineI wont hear a word about rent, or Ill be cross. Go fetch your things.”
“Its not far. All James and I own is in a bag downstairs. My weeks up, and Ive been dragging it round all morning.”
And so, we became two. Lydia kept up her dressmaking studies. Id been on disability since a railway accident years ago, so I stayed home, knitting lace doilies and baby booties to sell at the market. They sold welldelicate as sea foam. Money wasnt tight, with the gardens bounty too. Saturdays, wed work the plot; Sundays, Id go to church while Lydia stayed home, rereading letters from James. She seldom joined me, complaining of headaches and backache.
One Saturday, after harvest, we readied the soil for winter. Lydia tired quickly, so I sent her to the cottage to rest and play the old vinyl records my husband and I had once bought. That afternoon, as I burned dry branches, a cry tore through the quiet: “Mum! Mum, come quick!” My heart lurchedforgetting my aching legs, I ran. Lydia clutched her belly, face twisted in pain. Our neighbour helped, speeding his old Rover to the hospital. She sobbed, “Its too soon, Mum! Pray for me, you know how!” I wept too, whispering prayers all the way.
They took her in on a stretcher while the neighbour brought me home. All night, I begged the Virgin to spare the baby. At dawn, I rang the ward.
“Your daughters fine. She kept asking for you and James, crying, then slept. The doctor says the risk has passed, but shell stay a few weeks. Her irons lowmake sure she eats well.”
When Lydia came home, we talked late. She couldnt stop speaking of James.
“He wasnt abandoned like me. His parents died in the train crash. We grew up togetherfriends first, then more. Hes so gentle. Its beyond love. Here, dyou want to see his photo? Thats him, second from the right. Smiling”
“Handsome lad.” I didnt say I could barely make him out. My glasses were old, and the photo was small. “Lydia, back in the gardenwhyd you call me Mum?”
“Oh, I forgotjust fear. Orphanage habit. Every adult was Mum or Dad, from the headmaster to the plumber. Id mostly shaken it, but when Im scared Sorry.”
“I see.” The words left me hollow.
“Aunt Emily, tell me about you. Why no photos of your husband or children? You never had any?”
“I had a son. He died before he turned one. After the accident, I couldnt have more. My husband was like a child to meI cherished him. He was my world, as James is yours. When I buried him, I put all the photos away. Even knowing hes with God, it hurt too much. Tears dont helpprayers do. Ask James for a bigger photo. Theres a frame somewhere.”
Come Christmas Eve, we decked the halls, speaking of the Christ child and waiting for the first star. Lydia fidgeted, rubbing her back.
“Youre not well, love. Why so restless?”
“Aunt Emily, call an ambulance. The babys coming.”
“But darling, its too soon!”
“I mustve miscalculated. Please, hurry.”
By midnight, shed given birtha girl, on Christmas Day. I sent word to James by telegram.
January brought joy and chaos. With Jamess blessing, Lydia named the baby Emily. I wept. Little Emily filled our days with laughter and exhaustionsleepless nights, thrush, fussing. But they were happy troubles. My own aches eased.
One mild winter day, I returned from shopping to find Lydia by the pram.
“Enjoy your walk, Aunt Emily?”
“Yes, love. Ill start lunch.”
Inside, I spotted a framed photo on the table. I smiled. “You found it. You chose one from his youth. Young folks prefer young faces.”
The soup simmered as Lydia returned with Emily. A neighbour helped with the pram. We settled the sleeping baby and slipped into the parlour.
“Lydia,” I nodded at the photo, “howd you find Alexanders pictures?”
“What? I dont follow.”
“This.” I pointed.
“That? You asked for a larger photo of James. He went to a studio. The frame was on the bookshelf.”
My hands shook as I took it. Only then did I seeit wasnt Alexander. A young sergeant grinned at the camera. I sank onto the sofa, pale, distant. When I looked up, Lydia was crying, a camphor compress in hand.
“Mum, look at me! Whats wrong?” she sobbed.
“Lydia, open the cupboardtop shelf, the photos. Bring them all.”
She returned with albums and frames. A man smiled from oneJames?!
“Lord above! Who is this? Is it James? No, its old. Who is it, Mum?”
“My husband, Alexander. Lydia, dearestwhere was James born?”
“I dont know. He came to our orphanage from London after the train crash. They said his parents died.”
“Oh, mercywhat a horrible mistake! They showed me a body, and I identified itthe shirt was Michaels. But the face My boy, Michael! Youre alive! Your wife and child live with me, and I never knew. God sent you to me, Lydia. Give me that photo.”
Bewildered, she handed it over. I covered it in kisses. “My Michael, my treasure!”
“James,” Lydia whispered.
“Call him James, but hes my son! Look at his fathers photoits the same face!”
She hesitated.
“Lydia, the birthmarkis there a star above his right elbow? When I identified the baby, his arm was crushed. I couldnt see it. Why so quiet? Is it there?”
“It is. Like a star. Mumoh, Mum, its there!”
We clung to each other, weeping, barely hearing little Emilys cry from the next room.
